Hold On to the Painted Sky
by foreverwriting9
Summary: A series of dreams that haunts Patrick Jane.


There are nights when Jane dreams that he's dying, and that he calls Lisbon just as his last breaths rattle through his lungs.

He tells her how important she is to him, how much he loves chasing murderers with her, and how he hopes that she'll miss him (because really, there is no one left to miss him besides Lisbon).

She tells him, stubbornly, that he _won't_ die, that he's going to keep living if only to make her life difficult. (There's something else Jane always wishes that she'd say at this point in the dream: _I need you_.)

"Jane?" Lisbon says, after a long beat of silence that seems to say far too much.

"Yes?" It's the only word he's able to choke out, because for some reason his throat seems to be closing up.

"I'll be there in a few minutes," Lisbon says softly, and then in a harder voice adds, "Don't you dare die on me, Patrick Jane."

He smiles into the phone and takes a deep breath. _Lisbon will fix this_. "OK," he says, his voice cracking. "OK."

_Hang on. Hang on._

He wakes up never knowing if he made it.

()()()()()()()()()

"Look at the stars," Lisbon says, awestruck, finger pointing up toward the sky.

Jane wants to tell her that half of what she thinks are stars are actually airplanes, but he doesn't (because when he turns to look at her he is suddenly struck by how _beautiful _she is, standing beneath the moonlight and counting the stars).

He smiles at her and then begins to whisper the names of constellations in her ear. She rolls her eyes. "Showoff," she says, but there's no bite to her words.

"You know what would be really impressive?" he asks, because he can't resist having this absurd conversation with Lisbon.

She turns and looks at him, eyebrows raised. "What?"

"If I juggled while reciting the names of constellations. That could practically be a circus act."

"Oh, yeah," she nods in mock seriousness. "People would line up by the hundreds to see that."

"Hundreds? Try thousands, Lisbon."

She laughs and turns her face back up to the sky, taking a slow breath. "What are we going to do, Jane?" Her voice has taken on a serious tone, but Jane has no idea why or even what she's talking about.

"I don't know," he says, because he doesn't, and he can practically taste this dream going sour. "We'll be OK," he says, almost as an afterthought, more to convince himself than her.

Lisbon nods, her lips pressing together into a thin line. All Jane really wants to do is make her smile again, make her laugh. So he reaches for her hand, a joke ready on his tongue.

And then everything bursts into flame.

()()()()()()()()()

There are too many variations on his Red John dreams.

He's watched his wife and daughter die so many times that he's actually lost count, and he's watched Lisbon, Cho, Rigsby, and Van Pelt die just as many times (because no matter how much he denies it, they're a family.)

()()()()()()()()()

"Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright, in the forests of the night," Red John hisses in his ear, and just as Jane begins to wonder what the _hell_ that means, he can feel the sharp steel of a knife against his neck.

He knows the end is coming.

But nothing happens.

Red John moves away from Jane's side and turns toward the opposite end of the room. "What immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry?" he asks the shadows. A voice answers, and Jane can't make out the words, but he can tell that it's Van Pelt.

"Grace?" he says, but her sudden sobs drown out his words.

Rigsby and Cho come after that, and then finally Red John pulls Lisbon out of thin air. He brings her right up to Jane, toe to toe, so that the green of Lisbon's eyes is visible in the half-lit room.

"Lisbon," he starts, and he wants to tell her how right he was; bad things happen to anyone who gets close to him. "I'm sorry," he blurts out instead. "I'm so, so sorry, Teresa."

Lisbon opens her mouth to speak, (Jane likes to imagine that the words _I forgive you_ and _we're a family_ are on the tip of her tongue at this moment) and then Red John ruins _everything_.

He smiles in a way that turns Jane's stomach, and grabs Lisbon roughly by the wrist. "The best for last," he sing-songs, and then proceeds to kill the last person who really cares for Jane.

By the end, Jane is shaking and crying, and he feels positively _sick._

The one thing he thinks over and over as Red John presses the bloody knife to his throat is that all of this is completely his fault.

()()()()()()()()()

There's one dream in particular which leaves Jane feeling hollow and achy in a way that sticks with him long after he's finally woken up.

It's about Lisbon.

(As so many of his dreams seem to be, nowadays.)

()()()()()()()()()

The two of them are sitting on a couch that's uncomfortable and cold, staring at the red face on the wall across from them. (Actually, Lisbon's the only one staring at the face on the wall; Jane finds himself focusing instead on the red and blue lights flashing through the windows and lighting up her face.)

Lisbon touches his arm gently and begins to speak. "Next time-"

He kisses her hard then, swallowing the lie that always comes next. _We'll get him_.

(Jane is so tired of waiting.)

The first thing he tastes always changes. Sometimes it's strawberries, or coffee, or vanilla. The second flavor is always salt, but he can never tell if it's from his tears or from Lisbon's.


End file.
